Until the End of Time
by PlanetOfTheWeepingWillow
Summary: After a World War Three, the world is now in ruins. Few of the nations remain and all they can do is regard their crumbling surroundings in pity and hope for a better future. Post-apocalypse future based on a hypothetical situation.
1. America: Baby Got it Good?

_Baby you got it good?_

_Yeah I bet you got it good!_

_Oh yeah, I know you ain't lying_

_'cause you can't lie to me!_

_Baby you got it good?_

The radio hawked its wires, screeching out the final notes of a scratched-up disk. It could only incessantly play those few lines; stuck on the chorus before hissing and returning to the first line. The radio itself was stationed inside a car. It rolled off ripples of radiation like sweat from a jogger. No one stood around it for miles. The city had crumbled and fallen down on itself, pointing inwardly at that car that continued to sing out its unwelcome song.

Standing at the very edge of the city and looking down was a man in a mask. He wore a thick suite, weapons at his side, and his eyes were hidden beneath large, black goggles. His breathing rasped through the mouth-piece and his head slowly turned, examining the world. He stepped forwards, not hearing the song.

_Baby you got it good?_

The world had been this way for years, more than anyone can remember. Survivors remained below the ground or lived as vagabonds, scouring the torn earth. The man in the mask stepped away from the city, calculating his steps and avoiding any hidden traps or animals, or even plants. They were too precious to be trodden on. Ahead of him, many miles, one of those vagabonds dragged his feet through the cracked road. His beard grew long and shaggy, quivering and clinging desperately to his weak jaw. He hadn't eaten in several days. This stretch of land was poisoned, dead.

Overhead the clouds collected. They were bruised and grey, moving slowly and swirling through the sky. The man in the mask paused before a truck standing by its lonesome on the road. He thought he heard something from it. He aimed his weapon, a lengthy gun, at it and waited. The truck made no move. Several of its wheels were missing, causing it to lean heavily on one side. The clasp on the side was undone and the doors were ajar. The glass was broken and dusty. The man edged towards the opened doors and peered into the musty darkness. No one was there. The man, squinting in distrust, continued on.

_You can't lie to me!_

He lifted a metal door in the earth and slipped below, climbing down the stairs with the flap slowly closing overhead and locking itself shut. The truck had someone in it, in fact. Inside the stranger stirred and slowly exited, breathing in relief now that the patrol officer had gone back below to his sanctuary that was becoming a Hell more and more each day.

The stranger jumped off the truck. It creaked behind him as he struck the earth with his booted feet. He looked around. He wore a mask and goggles over his clear blue eyes, but he lacked head-gear; thus exposing his honey-blonde hair and letting it flow down in loose curls. His outfit was similar to the patrol officer's—baggy and thick so as to offer him as much protection as possible. Steel-toed boots fitted around his legs loosely. A backpack, a teenager's once, hung at one shoulder holding everything he had left. He ran on a finite supply of energy and life-force. Slowly it drained more and more.

His name was Alfred F. Jones and he was the United States of America. He chose the vagabond lifestyle, trusting that the Americans hidden in chambers away from radiation and sunlight would keep living and give him a supple amount of life that he required as a nation. His arms were scarred from the wrist up to the shoulder. Shifting, he chose one of the many roads, now faded colors, and followed it. He hoped, as he did every moment, that his brother in the North was alive and well, that his friends over in the East were breathing still. Some weren't.

When he looked out to the horizon, where he could once see mountains, he found only swirling dust and storm. When it thundered and rained here it was violent and catastrophic—breaking down trees and causing every last one of them to collapse to the ground. Now a dream was lost but he didn't quite know how to put it into words. Uneasily he walked forwards, not knowing exactly where to go but he had to keep going.

Once or twice he passed by another wanderer and sat down with them. One was a teenage girl and her little sister. They were long past being scared. They didn't remember the old days. All they remembered was a life underground and an escape because something went horribly wrong. They spoke by a fire that Alfred lit and they ate rats.

_Baby you got it good?_

The little sister had a plain expression most of the time. When the wind howled she looked at it oddly. But when her sister cried her eyes widened in terror and she comforted her. Alfred couldn't help but feel warm compassion surging in his heart for them.

One time he met an older man and his wife. They remembered the old days. They remembered a life not brought up in fear but in warm sunshine and watermelons and lemonade. Now there was none of that. Now there was hardly even a clear blue sky to look up to. The man died that night and the woman buried him solemnly and lay down by him.

Why don't you go on? Alfred asked.

I don't have a reason to anymore. She replied.

Oh.

Alfred sat with her for a long time, waiting for her to change her mind. He offered her to come with him several times but she always refused and only shut her eyes. They were dry. She did not cry. When Alfred had to go on, or else some unknown but omnipotent force would shove him on, he bade her good-bye and that was that.

Since then his footsteps were heavier and slower, more deliberate. He tried to keep a journal with him, but he could only write one entry in before crumbling and crying weakly.

_Today I woke up and I thought I was at home. I almost felt at peace but the darkness and the smoke reminded me I was no longer at home. It was my home, of course, but it was ruined and robbed and deflowered. Everything is so wrong. When did it all go wrong?_

Of course he remembered when it all went wrong. It went wrong years ago when one unhappy person inspired other unhappy people. First screams were spilled, then blood, and then missiles.

He could remember the moment they struck so clearly. He was hidden in a safe place, along with so many others who always slept down there when night fell. A moment of silence befell the earth and everyone awoke, disturbed, listening to the above world tensely.

A whistle.

Then a shattering silence.

And then it came. Then the earth shook and travelled back in time to a million years ago. It returned to the heat and the turmoil. The ground broke and rocks flew everywhere. A mushroom cloud of dust rose in the air, roaring and tearing through the country like hands clawing to escape. Those around Alfred screamed and cried. Parents clutched each other, their children between them. Those who were alone bowed their heads. Those who could not handle it cried and lashed out violently, quickly hushed by others.

Then those above ground who were praying and believing in peace to come soon: they were torn from their beds and flung down to the dark gates of death. Their life's breath flew away along with their hope. After several days of migrating through channels, those who survived ended up in sanctuaries. Not many lived long.

That was fifteen years ago.

Thirteen years ago Alfred left the hole. He grabbed, in a rush, the patrol officers' uniform and pulled it on, breaking through the exit and ending up outside. He expected fresh air and nature to have taken back the land. It was not so. No, that wouldn't happen for a very long time yet.

_Yeah I bet you got it good!_

Alfred wanted to stay out of it, he really did. He tugged at suits and begged, dropping to his knees eventually. No one listened. All were too bent on war and their eyes gleamed viciously with a lust for battle.

Tragedy thrilled them.

Tragedy thrills_ me._

Alfred thought this and his heart nearly stopped. He had wanted him. Part of him had let them, in the end, go at it. He was curious. He wondered what would happen if war did break loose across the world so technologically advanced. Something in him was morbid and trembling with anticipation. But another half was pure and innocent, wanting peace and wanting to preserve the life of his fellow nations.

Now the sun began to dip below and kiss the horizon. Orange, dusty light spilled forth and ignited a path for Alfred. He edged towards it, his lips parting beneath the mask. Clouds lowered so that the stretch of light was intensified, like a ribbon of gold stretching around the sky. Broken street lamps and trees littered the path. Broken cars filled with decayed bodies stood out before him.

_When did things go wrong?_

Great cities once rose up from this earth. Great people were born there. Metropolises were born along that planet. People before were planning for a great future. They imagined crystalline cities rising up to the heavens and piercing pure white clouds. They imagined cars aloft in the air filled with happy people. They imagined a world at peace with itself and its technology. Then it all changed. Then people placed paint brushed tipped not with white but with black on their canvas. They dragged downwards and not upwards. Their expectations sank lower and their colors turned murky. The future became hazy but still it was predicted.

The world was dead.

Alfred lowered his head and kicked at the stones beneath his feet, still following that heavenly light from ahead. He started to wonder if it was real. He wondered if, perhaps, it was only an illusion. His people had finally left the hope of him and their culture behind. It, too, was dead.

Alfred choked on a sob and held it back, gripping the hilt of a blade along his belt tighter and tighter. He thought to himself and then whispered it aloud, eventually speaking because no one would hear him anyway:

If there is a deity please let the new people, if there will be any, learn from our mistakes. Let them see the truth for what it is! Let them know how wronged we were. Let them dig up the old drawings of beautiful futures and let them build it! Oh, please… Let there be light!

_Baby you got it good?_

* * *

I do not own Hetalia

_(This will be done where every chapter is a different character's story. Each will reveal a different part of the history and of their current world. Hope you enjoy. And props to anyone who knows what the allusion is to.)_


	2. Romano: Not Without You

When morning rays light the broken city streets, Lovino realized that it was time to wake up. He, Southern Italy, yawned and looked around the small, salvaged space that he had come to call home. It was a tiny apartment in the heart of a damaged building on the outer edges of the city. It remained somewhat safe and rather untouched by explosion.

The four walls that made up the bedroom stood starkly with peeling wallpaper. The bed was made of iron rungs that held a thin mattress. Lovino stood, scratching his chest, and then occasionally running his hands through his matted brown hair. The bedroom was cluttered with objects from the previous owners. Several books lay face-down, stuffed animals from children, and even a shattered violin leaned against one wall by a healthy guitar. Lovino, upon entering this place once he escaped the underworld of sanctuary, he decided to keep the objects as they were—homage to the originals tenants. They were lying dead somewhere. Perhaps when that first missile struck the earth and shattered ear drums they were the first victims, rushing somewhere and then suddenly caught up in an onslaught of surging power.

Lovino pushed the door open, as it had no door handle, and went into the kitchen. From the lower-level sanctuary he had brought up heaping piles of canned foods and water. He picked up a can of peaches and popped it open, pouring the orange and slimy contents into a bowl. Faint melancholy trickled into his mind. There would never be another peach. The only places he imagined that were as they were before lay in the middle of the ocean, the deserts, and the arctic. He longed to go to the arctic. He longed to escape the dry air. Humidity from the country had been sucked up and replaced by incessant dryness.

After eating, Lovino went back into the bedroom and picked up the guitar. He poised his fingers on the strings, twanging them and trying to find a song. He began strumming, his fingers vibrating and the music spilling out into the otherwise soundless room. Music was scarce, he knew, but it was only for him. No one else was alive for miles.

Those below now, too, became nothing but bones and whimpers. Something had leaked from above and screams and horrid screams upon horrid screams—

Escape

We must escape, brother

No! I don't want to leave everyone here!

There's no choice! Take my hand—come on-

Brother you're hurting me with your grip….

Don't whimper, run! Come on, run like you did in training! Run like you could!

I can't—

Lovino put the guitar away, frowning. The memories stung bitterly. They jabbed into his stomach like long knives, cold with guilt. He set the guitar away and left the bedroom and went to the living room. He collected a face mask and strapped it onto his face, along with goggles. His outfit he always slept in it. He didn't have anything else.

With a backpack strung across his back and an unused rifle for protection at his side, he left. He locked the door.

Lovi, I don't think that one lock will be enough.

Who the hell do you expect to come in?

I don't know! There may be someone around here that would run in and steal everything…

Maybe. Give me that bag, I'll see if I can make something from whatever's in there.

If you say so…

Lovino lovingly fingered the lock he had made from various tools and shards of metal from the other apartments. He closed it tightly and bounded through the empty halls, his steps echoing. From the windows he could see a thin line of blue sky peeking between thick clouds.

The elevator had been broken for a long time. He took the stairs, jumping over the fault step, and landing on both feet in front of the front door. He pushed it open. Cool air greeted him. It was insufferably dry. He shut the door behind him, glancing over his shoulders before locking it tightly. Hitching the backpack higher up on his shoulders with his thumbs he stared straight ahead.

Buildings before him leaned. Great, white, beautiful structures now were gray and yellow and shrouded in dark mist. A sole yellow car leaned against the curb of a side walk. One of its doors was open, hanging open. Blackened bones hung from fabric, spilling out into the pavement. The front mirror was cracked right in the middle, going outwards like a spider web. Stains decorated its front where it had cracked. Its engines were visible, like entrails exposed through cut skin.

How sad!

Feliciano, it's nothing. We need to find somewhere to be.

Don't be so harsh. Don't you think that it's just so sad for that happy color to be tarnished like that?

I don't think anything about the damn car. It's broken and sad, sure, but we'll be broken and sad if we don't hide away.

Okay—oh! Look at that building. It doesn't look too bad. Hey, the front doors are even still in good shape!

Lovino cast a glance behind him, again at the building, and sternly faced forwards. There was nothing to do but explore. Sure, he would have been safer to stay at home, away from any potential threat. But what was the use of that? What good would it do to preserve his health when there was nothing to live for? He may as well enjoy what he can see. In death his health won't matter anyway.

After some meandering, Lovino discovered a round structure. It was recent and once painted blue. Lovino pushed the double-doors open, greeted by a dusty but still intact foyer. A desk stood at the front and a nametag had fallen face-forwards. Once someone stood at the front, selling tickets for the plays that would take place inside.

Lovino walked in, through several curtains thick with cobwebs. The makers, the spiders, were dead somewhere. They certainly couldn't have lived through that. Inside the room was lit through a crack in the ceiling. Rows of crimson-striped seats all faced forwards toward a thrust stage. Curtains were torn and toppled over one another. Dresses and props cluttered the area. The smell of death poisoned the air. There, in the back, was the outreaching, thin hand of a ballerina. Her fingers were curved and gentle. They never did anyone any harm. Now, shriveled to the bone, they were nothing but another scrap of material.

Before Lovino could see anymore of the dead, he turned away and left the building. His next bout of walking took him to a park. The grass was yellowed and dead, gray in some areas where it would never grow back. Benches were overgrown with creepers that, too, had browned and faded away. Some flowers were still in bloom. One flower, pink, swayed in an unseen breeze. Its petals had holes and scorch marks through them, but it persevered.

How lovely is it? Tell me Lovino. Describe it to me.

It's… There are still some flowers. Give me your hand. Yes, there. Now, can you feel my heart?

…Yes… Why?

I want you to know that every pulse is for you. If I had the equipment I would give you my blood so you could get better. Feliciano, you're my brother and I love you above all else.

Lovino…

But I can't. So feel every throb of my heart. All I can give you is my love. But that's not enough.

Please, don't cry.

I'm not crying.

Yes, you are.

Lovino raised his hands to his cheeks and felt them moist with tears beneath the masks. His breathing now fogged up the mask's green plastic. He crossed the park.

For two hours he wandered through the network of streets. He went in and out of alleyways. He spotted death in every corner. Once, he thought he heard the buzz of a fly. Excitement rocketed through him, happy that he had found some form of life, no matter how annoying. But it turned out to be the wind buffeting through a metal rod, causing it to buzz like a fly. He fancied several times that he heard a pure, sweet voice asking him to come along. But it was silenced once he focused on its words.

He thrived solely on the can of peaches he had for breakfast. He wouldn't eat another bite until he returned home that evening. Home. Strange. That hole had become his home.

Brother, why must you do this to me?

Do what?

Why did you have to become sick? Why can't we live together?

Lovi, I don't know. My people have given up. Or at least they have all perished in that fire and explosion…

Then why am I still here?

Maybe you aren't alone… Now, don't make me speak. It weakens me so…

Okay. I love you, remember that, brother?

Of course

I'm sorry for yelling at you. I'm sorry for being so horrible, so cruel, so mean… I now regret letting my rage fly and devour me. I'm sorry. I'm sorry.

I'm so sorry.

Lovino caught those words exiting his lips and bowed his head. He leaned over a casket down by the river. It was closed. The Italian flag draped across it, the red and green both faded. He touched the smooth wood. It was on the only one that had survived in the undertaker's shop. Lovino didn't know what to do. All he knew is that his brother had been tossed down to the wretched gate of death and he had to create a funeral for him. He couldn't. He placed Feliciano lovingly in a coffin, carrying the corpse in his arms until he found one and feeling the skin turn cold under his arms.

The coffin sat atop a hill. Wispy trees leaned over it, as though mourning. Before Lovino, swishing and roaring dimly, was the sea. Red and green waters rippled. In the distance they turned black and ominous. Across the sea someone would be there, looking for someone else to be alive in the world.

Lovino bent over the wood and kissed it, imagining his brother beneath the top. There, his hands crossed across his chest, his skin white, he would be at complete peace with the world. Lovino rose stared into the sky. Night began casting a blanket of darkness. Lovino, though he did not know why, had made it his duty to never be out after sunset. He felt some sort of evil lurked in the darkness.

At home, after a dragging and slow walk, Lovino shut the blinds and opened a can of vegetables, eating them and chewing slowly. He looked across at the empty seat and held up his fork, offering it to the ghost he saw there. The ghost grinned and disappeared.

Back on the bed, Lovino curled up, feeling sleep draw up on him. In the darkness he saw Feliciano, a heavenly figure lying there with him, smiling and comforting him.

Did you ever expect this to happen?

No.

I thought you did.

I expected the world to end. I just didn't expect it to do so without you.


	3. Switzerland: Beweep My Outcast State

Open up your soul and let it all sink in.

Close your eyes and listen to the darkness swarm in around you.

Vash Zwingli did this. He hunkered down in an old cabin locked away in the mountains. He wanted to abstain, he really did, but the war had sucked him right in.

Maybe it was the fact that he pulled back, that he could survive for so long. Swallowing bits of air he stood up, slinging a gun across his shoulder and pushing an amount of blonde hair away from his face and blinked several times. The last shot he fired still echoed in his ears. He pulled on thick leather boots, a leather jacket, and snapped don a face mask. The gases here weren't as bad as they were in the Americas, not that he would no. Boats and planes and ships and any other form of transportation were obsolete. Maybe one underground far below the earth, manned by programs, were still running for the ghosts and shadows of passengers. Slowly they would come to a stop, once the electricity that fueled them ran out. The voices operating them would become strange and funky before completely turning off. The final train would pull into its station, the lights would flicker off, and that world would be no more.

Vash had shared the cabin with his little sister, Erika, and she too was no more.

She was too sick.

Vash didn't look back at the one-roomed cabin. He didn't want to see the imported samovar on that table or the bloody bed. No, no more.

Vash exited the cabin. When he came out he was greeted by the last stretch of forest.

But it too was no more.

The trees were bare, standing like charred sticks erected in the ground. The sky overhead was overcast, nothing new. Vash swallowed back his emotions and shut them off, as though turning the volume down on some radio.

He went through the trees, shouldering a little nylon sack with whatever he had left.

Pack your things before you do this, she said.

Okay, I will, Erika.

Just after he and Erika had escaped their underground shelter, knowing that there was no use being cooped up down there, they had slipped into this little cabin to live out for as long as they could.

The rivers were turning to blood. The ocean was nothing but a red mess. Waves lapped up on shore, foaming pink bubbles, eating up the sand.

Vash skidded down the rocky terrain and stopped just before the rivers. He peered into it.

No, it wasn't red.

It was gray, emotionless, dead. It had given up on providing nourishment because there was nothing to nourish. Green matter floated to the surface. Body parts did too, unidentifiable though. Vash went around it, finding a narrower part, and leaped over. He continued to walk through the parched, faceless land. There was no grass or soil, just compact, dead dirt.

He bowed his head, shoving his hands in his pockets. The world was just so dead.

Why had we done this? Why had we given up and destroyed our only home? Why did we have to come to this?

Something shifted in the background and Vash rounded on it, holding out his gun and aiming. His finger pressed against the trigger but the movement had stopped. It must have been some stray breeze, or a vagabond that meant no harm. If it was someone who wanted to kill him they would have already shot.

Vash sniffed loudly, then sighed. His stomach hurt and his head was dizzy, as if two pincers had hammered down on his temples. He rubbed his jaw and continued on, trying to close in on the city.

The trees thinned out and an apartment building came into view. It was blank, yellowed, and must have once been very beautiful. Leaning on its side was a rusted, but still sturdy ladder. He moved over to it and picked it up, testing its durability.

It seemed to be able to withstand pretty much anything. He grunted and raised it up, leaning it against the wall and digging it into the lifeless soil. Once it was properly propped up, he began to climb. His gun rattled against his back and his fingers stung. Several shriveled flowers hung from the windows, some withered stalks still stood in cracked pots. He peered into one of the rooms and found a dead body. It was a child, wrapped in a cloth. It was a little girl, clothed in a summer dress, and resting on her bed. She looked peaceful. Her black hair, now wound like cords over time, flowed down the pillow. He couldn't see her skin or flesh, but he knew it had decayed long ago.

He continued to climb and found that the ladder ended halfway up the building's height. A bit of adventuring would do, he reckoned. He carefully balanced on the final rung, caught hold of one of the window sills, and crawled to it. He raised his hand, keeping the other gripped tightly around a gutter, and pulled himself up to the next window. He squirmed and shimmied up and up until he reached the end of the road, where there was nothing left but a stretch of brick wall before the roof.

Chancing a glance down, he was overcome with a new wave of dizziness. The ground was so far below. The distance between him and it seemed to expand, like all the stars as they whirled away from the earth, growing more distant over time, their light swallowed by the growing darkness.

He dug in his supplies and around his belt, finding the length of rope he had packed before. He precariously balanced, tying a bit of curved metal to the end of the rope, and flung it to the top. It caught hold and grew taut as he tugged. He, scraping along the surface, managed to climb up and land on the dusty roof.

Just as he began to grin in victory, he was overcome with a fit of coughing. He hacked and hacked, feeling as though his lungs were ready to burst from his throat. Drops of blood fell from his lips and splattered against the roof. He felt nauseated and next thing he knew the ground was coming awfully fast up to meet him.

When he woke, in three hour's time, he found that the throbbing in his temples had intensified. Shaking, he rose up on his arms and looked around. Darkness had yet to settle. Evening swept through the world and engulfed him in groggy twilight, but still it was enough to see a good distance away.

He edged to the brink of the apartment building and looked ahead. His breath fell off-beat again, but this time it was from awe.

Dark, reddish-greenish-bluish mist swarmed around the city. Broken buildings haphazardly leaned. Cars piled up together along the roads. One truck was on its side, like a fallen beast, and crushed the cars below it. No movement but the mist's tiny shifts was visible.

A once beautiful, remarkable city was now just as unrecognizable as any other forsaken place on the forsaken planet. Signs titled, ready to fall, but held on by sinews of cords and wires.

He closed his eyes, trying to imagine the city as it was before. He rocked dangerously on his heels, and stumbled closer to the edge. He opened his eyes and found that he was staring straight down. Dirt and blood smeared the ground. Rust and gunk and trash and lost hope and sorrows and woes and time and death smeared the city. Sadness smeared his heart.

He plummeted.

* * *

_Thank you for all the reviews. I never expected anyone to even find this story even worth a skim. _

_And yes, I have read The Road my clever reviewer. This story was inspired by that, I Am Legend, Fallout 3, and a discussion in my history class. The title of this chapter comes from Shakespeare's Sonnet 29, which I do not claim ownership of. _


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